


The Story With Us Both

by ryssabeth



Series: Novelesque Diary [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always someone else's margins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story With Us Both

Enjolras won’t leave Grantaire’s flat. It’s just—it’s been _hours_ , and there isn’t anything more to _say_ about anything. About the bar, about the bottles, about the books and pencils and papers. And yet, still he sits on Grantaire’s sofa (which is actually quite impressive, because Grantaire has had to change places about four times), sipping at a mug of coffee with his feet propped on the coffee table, listening to the whole lot of _nothing_ that had been coming out of Grantaire’s mouth.

(He doesn’t know how to tell a story without a backbone. He doesn’t know how to explain things without prying apart the works of others.

Grantaire is _marginal_ —he’s never been a main character before.)

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says ( _again_ ) into the silence.

“ _Stop_ ,” Grantaire swats at his calf from his own sprawl on the floor, his tongue sticking miserably to the roof of his dry mouth (but his head is still swimming and so he doesn’t go get water—but if he _did_ go and get himself a glass, the hangover would be much better—and so here is the loop of staying put). “Stop. Stop it. You’re driving spikes into my eye sockets every time you do that.”

Enjolras breathes out a disgruntled sigh, moving his left foot to press his socked heel against Grantaire’s cheek. “Don’t tell me what to say—I’m very sick of your bossy nature.”

“ _I’m_ bossy?” This entire exchange feels forced, as well as petulant, a conversation without having a conversation. “ _You_ are bossy. Crazy bossy. Forceful in everything—including your facial expressions, the way you walk, _Jesus_ , the proper metaphor for this is how, without the Sun, the planets would be aimless, shooting through space. Shit—without _you_ , there wouldn’t be planets in the first place.”

“That started out insulting,” he moves his foot away from Grantaire’s face, “and then it turned into something else.”

( _Something else_. That’s a phrase for it.

 _I love you too_ is entirely appropriate too, he supposes.)

“It turned into a space metaphor.”

“ _Obviously_. I just meant—“ Enjolras tilts to the right, pulling his legs away from the coffee table to stretch them out down the sofa, so he can look upon Grantaire with a face rife with distress. Or discomfort. From this angle it’s hard to tell. “I was just curious as to how you came upon this metaphor.”

Grantaire tries to keep their eyes locked, tries to fight every instinct in him to cut and run (because he honestly has nowhere to go, except maybe Cosette’s and he doubts that sleeping on her floor with be a viable option). “You, _you—_ you’re inspiring. Even when you sit and chew on pens you’re inspiring. I’ve seen the way your little club looks at you, and they would jump in front of a train to stop it before it hit you, if such a scenario were possible—but the likelihood of a train stopping, since it needs to much time to break, before it hit you would be very low. But that wouldn’t stop them.” He breathes out his nose and Enjolras’ eyes flicker across his face. “And it wouldn’t stop me, either. I would give a lot to orbit you.”

“You and Jehan have been spending too much time together,” and the conversation takes a sharp turn out of the realm of the serious. Out of the places that Grantaire only steps into when he’s had just enough to drink or when he stops thinking about every stupid thing he’s ever said in his life.

(But he is doing neither of these things now—and so he has two options.

He could run away with the opportunity to get out of this topic.

Or.

 He could press forward.)

“I would give anything to be in your margins,” Grantaire continues. “Because—minor characters, we don’t need to be _anything_. We can be defined by whatever the main character is. And that—I am completely okay with that, Enjolras. I don’t need to be _anything_ except the brat on the edge of the pages.”

Enjolras looks back down at him then, his lips twisting in displeasure. “So _I_ am in the wrong to articulate any feelings of my own, but _you_ are allowed to pull out your poetry?”

Grantaire simply blinks, watching Enjolras’ face go from irritated to hurt, back to stony, before it settles on distates. And he sighs. “I’m a booze-filled balloon, Apollo. You’re not seeing everything. There has to be something you’re mi—“

There is a dramatic shift and a rustle of movement, Enjolras snapping from disgruntled stillness into motion in the space of a breath, shifting half-off the couch, grabbing Grantaire’s shirt with his left hand, propping the rest of his weight on his right, gripping the armrest with white-knuckled fingers. “You’re doing that thing again where you’re trying to tell me what I know.” Grantaire rests his own weight on his elbows, not exactly secure in the guarantee that Enjolras won’t just drop him back onto the floor. “And what I see. And how I’m supposed to interpret what I read.”

The position he’s in can’t be good for his back, but the tension in his jaw is doing wonders for already inhumanly perfect face. “Listen,” Grantaire tries to explain without looking at his lips, “I just—this won’t ever—I don’t want you wasting your time on me. On some half-drunk, mouth-breathing, margin-writer.”

Enjolras groans, a long-suffering thing, and releases Grantaire’s shirt (as he had known he would), but he stays propped up on his elbows, watching the column of Enjolras’ throat work around the sound. “You’re not following me. You haven’t been listening to _anything_ I’ve said since I got here.” He covers his face with his hands.

“It’s the _same_ sh—“

“Grantaire, _shut up._ ” (That tone does things to his brain—makes it indignant—and to his heart—makes it race.) “I _want_ you in my margins. I want you in my story. I want to espouse the wonders and irritations of everything that you do _in my life_. I want hand-holding and making out in the library and reading your editorial notes in every book you’ve managed to collect over your lifetime. I want to meet your sister, I want to meet your friends. I want you to be happy and I want to _make_ you happy. _Christ_. There. I don’t know how I can be any more clear. You fell, you said.”

All Grantaire can do is nod as Enjolras’ hands come away from his face and he bends again, adjusting his spine and bringing their faces close together, though Grantaire’s biceps are starting to quiver with the effort of keeping himself this upright. “I do recall saying such a thing.” (Only hours ago, merely hours.)

“What if I tried to catch you?”

Grantaire feels laughter push up and out of his chest. “What if this story doesn’t have a happy ending? What if I can’t be caught?”

“If you don’t try, you’ll never _know_.”

“I feel like that has been a platitude that has followed me from primary school,” but his body feels too tight to move, muscles coiled like wire preparing for something to break. Preparing for the world to fall in on him, tell him this was just a dream or a hallucination.

“I love you,” Enjolras says slowly. “I love _you_. I said it. I meant it. Add to my story, Grantaire. Unless you absolutely do not want to, add to my story.”

“You and Jehan,” Grantaire wheezes, feeling everything, _too much_ of everything, “have been spending too much time together.” He shifts from his elbows to his hands, pushing into enough of a sitting position to press his nose against Enjolras’ cheek.

“Be _serious_.”

“I am _wild_. I’m wild with seriousness. I’m wild for you. I—“ _love you_ , his throat closes around the words and he tries again. “I love you. Can’t imagine _why_ , bossy and insufferable and misguided—“

“A balloon full of booze, could your imagery be any worse.”

This banter feels forced too, a little too light, a little too-much tiptoeing around things, but Grantaire drags his nose across Enjolras’ cheek before he presses their lips together and (even though his mouth has been dry and he’s too lazy to get up, even though he probably still tastes like booze even after he’s brushed his teeth three times) lets Enjolras open him up.

“Do you want to stay the night?” Grantaire asks, gasping after Enjolras stole his breath with lips and teeth and tongue.

“It is a little late,” Enjolras agrees, with a flush high in his Grecian cheeks (hardly an excuse, hardly viable—it’s barely half-eight and even if it wasn’t, why would that matter?). “And I imagine there’s some reading I need to do. And heaven knows you won’t get up on your own tomorrow. And I need to see if there are any bottles left,” (under the bathroom cabinet, where people _never_ look). “And I need to hear you say it again.”

“I love you,” Grantaire says dutifully, knowing what’s being asked of him (and his heart twists, snapping off at the arteries, ready to be handed over to Enjolras within his cupped palms).

“Again.”

“I love you.”

They kiss, again, and more, until Enjolras’ back does begin to hurt and they take a break from robbing each other blind to eat and talk and laugh (stepping forward and away from the issue, carefully following a script until they’re not anymore).

Enjolras keeps touching him—light, assuring, casual things—and leaves little pieces of himself behind with every one.

He’s pulling Grantaire away from the margins.

(And Grantaire thinks he’s letting go of them, a bit at a time.)


End file.
